


Treatment

by Smutbunny



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Body Modification, Broken Bruce, Cock & Ball Torture, Consensual, Enemas, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Father/Son Incest, Fucked Up, M/M, Male Lactation, Multi, Name-Calling, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Past Underage, Rough Body Play, Shibari, Sounding, Spanking, Sub Bruce, Underage - Freeform, Urethral Play, Voyeurism, batfamily, underage sexual contact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10011257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutbunny/pseuds/Smutbunny
Summary: Here’s the thing – if Dick likes the fucking and verbal humiliation, and Jason likes the pain and sadism, Tim likes the look of Bruce’s balls really filling that saggy sac





	1. Chapter 1

It’s Dick’s fault.

No one knows how it starts – or how Dick makes it work – but there are many reasons to suspect that there is something fundamentally broken in Bruce’s psyche. Something… worse than just his parents’ death.

They have never tried to analyse him, preferring instead simply to understand, and accept.

It isn’t too difficult.

He submits so prettily.

Tim pulled up the footage once, of the first few times that fourteen year old Dick bearded the Bat in his own cave. Crossed his arms and smiled in the way only Dick can.

Sadly, there was no audio in those far-off days, and so Tim had to content himself with lip reading and Dick’s fertile memory.

“I distinctly saw the word bitch,” Tim announces.

Dick grins, and it’s almost exactly like the grainy footage on the screen, “I told him I knew he’d been watching, salivating. Like a hungry bitch. So yes. I used the word.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t end up splattered all over the wall,” Tim remarks.

“I did. Just not the way you mean,” Dick teases.

And Tim rolls his eyes.

But he wonders if the word is a trigger. Dick likes the word on Bruce, and in using it so often and so casually, has indoctrinated it into all their training. More often than not, Bruce’s ass is called his bitch-cunt, his worked over cock a bitch-clit.

The fact that _none_ of them get splattered against a wall is still surprising. When he stops long enough to wonder about it.

But he doesn’t often.

Oh sure, the first time he saw Dick unceremoniously slide his hand down the back of Bruce’s slacks. Saw Bruce clench his jaw and look away but _do absolutely nothing to stop him_. That day he was very surprised.

He was even more surprised when he came across Dick casually tying Bruce up in some sort of complicated cat’s cradle of rope.

“Shibari,” Dick had told him, “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

He knows for a fact that Damian was not as shocked as he was.

But then Damian was raised in the even more abnormal environments of the League of Assassins and the things that Tahlia chose to share with her son – and how to kill was only the most disastrous one by half a point – are things Tim would rather not contemplate.

He’s had some exposure to Ra’s al Ghul’s own particular brand of crazy and he thinks Talia wouldn’t be too far off Bruce’s level of messed up.

Still, he reminds himself that she doesn’t have four teenaged boys using her body as their own personal sex doll.

He doubts her breasts would survive as perky as they currently are if she’d had someone like Jason around for any length of time.

Bruce carries a lot of guilt over Jason – they all do, to some extent, even those like Tim who genuinely couldn’t have saved him – but Tim is certain that Jason’s destructive issues were around long before the Joker beat him to the point of death in a warehouse and then left him to die in an almighty explosion.

Bruce’s balls are testament to that.

Jason likes to work on them.

Dick is a classic cock-man and likes to stick himself somewhere warm and slick but Jason, now, Jason really likes to inflict pain.

Bruce’s sac hangs low and floppy, and Tim once pulled up other footage of Nightwing returning only to find Jason stringing Bruce up by his balls alone.

Bruce is stoic about all sorts of things but Tim winces and presses his thighs together even now, even watching, wondering how much agony it must have been to have his swollen, bruised, overworked balls made to bear the weight of his whole large, heavily muscled body.

Luckily Jason hadn’t gotten too far when Nightwing intervened, and Bruce had been supporting most of his weight on his hands so they still have an adopted father with functioning testes and a firing sperm count.

Tim knows. He runs the scientific tests.

Well, he had to, to know what to mix up to increase the count.

Because here’s the thing – if Dick likes the fucking and verbal humiliation, and Jason likes the pain and sadism, Tim likes the look of Bruce’s balls really filling that saggy sac. Likes the idea of them churning overtime, lots of cum boiling away on a hair trigger.

Tim, as Dick puts it, likes the science-y approach.

He doesn’t think it’s all that scientific, really, because for someone who researched how to clone Superboy and studied the biochemical signature of the Lazarus Pits, who brews up antidotes to fear gas and pheromone toxins and laughing venom in his sleep, putting together a couple of injectable serum therapies to cause bull balls and male lactation is easy enough.

That last is where Damian comes in.

Not that Damian starts off coming in anywhere.

They hold back from offering him an in, out of respect for the sacred bonds of familial genes, but Tim notices that while Damian does not participate or even pay much attention to his father’s sexual deviancy, he certainly doesn’t avoid it.

And after a while, it seems a shame to waste all the milk he wrings out of Bruce’s sow teats.

Dick insists on calling them bitch-tits, in keeping with his theme.

But Jason calls them udders. And most days that’s the word they all end up using.

After all, Bruce doesn’t stop them and he seems to respond to it.

They make it a rule that he never milk his own udders. They tell him he could always ask, but Tim suggests that Damian may want to feed.

“Maybe every night,” he says coolly, “Like a ritual.”

Bruce says that Damian is too young and shouldn’t be encouraged to do what he doesn’t feel comfortable doing.

He is adamant.

And they respect their parent and guardian enough to listen when it comes to these things. Bruce may be their living sex toy and fuck-bitch but none of them came to this because they were forced. And they had all hit puberty before they hit on Bruce’s ass-cunt.

Damian wrinkles his brow at the thought of breastfeeding from his father.

“I bet your mother never breastfed you,” Tim says quietly. Almost sympathetically.

Damian has a reply, because Damian always does, but the idea’s grown and taken root and now every evening, before they go out on patrol, Damian curls into his father’s lap and licks each swollen, dripping nipple into his mouth to suckle with a single-minded intensity that seems to shudder all the way through Bruce’s body.

The experience seems to be a charged one for both father and son.

It doesn’t help that Damian derives some pleasure from being as gentle as he can be.

Bruce’s nipples bear Jason’s mark as well, being long and stretched before ever Tim got to them with his formula and turned them angry red with pent-up milk flow.

They’d make the perfect target for Damian’s perfect teeth but the Demon Brat always suckles with slow, wet, rhythmic pulls. Hands kneading softly at the base of the saggy mound while Bruce squirms in his chair.

This ritual over with, Alfred very kindly wipes Master Bruce’s bitch-tits dry, makes sure to anoint the nipples thoroughly with a lanolin cream, and then binds his udders to get him into his suit.

If Dick is around, he likes sliding the anal plug in. Likes working it in and out, and then carefully lacing up the grommets Tim has put into the flabby lips of Bruce’s bitch-pussy. They were sort of a birthday present for Dick for his twenty fifth birthday, and all it took was a local anaesthetic, some careful cleaning, a steroid-based healing cream and painkillers.

Oh, and it helped that Bruce was already scheduled to spend a few days in bed, his bout of walking pneumonia promising to keep him down only for long enough to make him irritable and wilfully self-destructive.

It had been worth it, though, when Bruce bent over and pulled his ass open just by hauling on the ribbons Tim had threaded through the two side grommets.

But they don’t get too fancy when it’s night patrol. Bruce needs to be comfortable and flexible, and the plug they choose is always to help him keep his gaping hole shut.

Ditto for his penis.

They’ve been sounding him for years, ever since Dick first saw the equipment in a raid on a BDSM brothel when he was sixteen.

They shove the flexible rubber sound up his piss-slit and keep going for gold. When they get it seated deep, they clip rings around the outside of his cock to keep the hold nice and tight. And they tie the whole lot up together with his balls in a pretty black cushioned pouch for safe keeping and Tim makes sure to fit the cup just right.

And through it all, Bruce just takes it.

Like the well-trained slut they’ve made him.


	2. Chapter 2

This is how Bruce’s day starts – he wakes up to the feel of Alfred pushing an enema nozzle up his ass.

Whether he’s on his back or his side or his belly, Alfred calmly pushes him into a suitable position and then unceremoniously inserts the metal piece.

It’s usually well-greased, and Alfred’s hands are always careful, and by now he’s learned not to react with more than a grunt of sensation. More a sound of acknowledgement than any kind of pleasure or pain.

In the old days, he’d still have the sticky residue of lube and cum around his hole, from where one or other of his boys had needed a little night-time relief. Since Dick, he’s always made himself available.

Dick and Jason used to spend whole nights in his bed.

All the better to roll him to his knees and take what they wanted.

Sometimes they still visit when the urge hits them. But the days of secrets in the dark are long gone.

These days, Alfred wears rubber gloves before expertly smearing oil over and into the flabby lips of his ass-pussy.

These days, he gapes like the slut he is.

And he pushes himself up on knees and elbows and feels the water rush into him.

Alfred makes sure he’s always filled to capacity, and the second bag of warm water is always left to trickle in slower, penetrate deeper.

The time it takes is immaterial. Alfred keeps up a light chatter about all sorts of things – news, missions, soirees, meetings, parental obligations. The curtains will be opened to flood the room with sunlight. The scattered remnants of the previous day tidied and put away.

Any toys to be cleaned are put into a special hamper. 

He knows he’s been an especially difficult charge when Alfred waits while just that little bit extra seeps into him. Just enough to really distend his abdomen.

And then the nozzle is removed and he is plugged to hold his load.

“Well, then, Master Wayne, if we can proceed,” Alfred always says.

Dick was the one who preferred the sight of Bruce on hands and knees. Jason was the one who preferred Bruce to crawl.

Tim still doesn’t quite understand how this ritual came to be but he’s grown used to his mornings at the manor beginning with his adopted father crawling into his room – balls and udders grotesquely swinging; bitch clit usually hard – he gives it nothing more than a cursory consideration of whether he really wants the proffered blowjob or not.

He isn’t the first one Bruce sees anyway.

That priority falls to Dick.

Dick who has always been the first in Bruce’s life, and who occupies a place none of them can hope to match.

Of all of them, Dick is the one who really isn’t fazed by Bruce’s inability to distinguish self—preservation from sanctioned punishment, sexual deviancy from complete submission. Or perhaps, Tim muses, Dick is the one who gets that Bruce does understand the distinction… just doesn’t feel the need to protect himself.

They could psycho—analyse him one day.

But after Doctor Strange and Scarecrow, after Hush and Black Mask and Talia and all the mind games they’ve all endured in and around the shadow of Arkham Asylum, there’s a bad taste linked to psychological treatment. And the thought of peeling back layers of their psyches is akin to the thought of torture.

In other words, they’d need to hate Bruce very much to put him through that.

As they don’t, and are actually all very much in love with him, for a given value of love, they prefer to abuse his body and leave his mind and heart alone.

Anyway, they don’t do too much with his morning rituals. Dick prefers a simple, straightforward blowjob. He usually asks Alfred about how much water Bruce is carrying, and how wide the plug in his ass is. Whether Bruce’s hole was sticky in the morning or just its usual slack, gaping pinkness.

When Bruce is done with Dick, he proceeds to Tim.

Tim also prefers a blowjob.

But Tim’s sex drive is on the arguably low side. Dick’s suggested having him check himself out but Tim is perfectly fine with a life of cerebral sexuality.

It’s always more emotionally rewarding to skip the blowjob altogether, and to focus on what brings him the most pleasure from Bruce’s body.

On good days, he’s already out of bed and prepped, ready to start. On bad days, Bruce has to wait while he shuffles around, half-asleep but determined not to break the habit.

On a few particularly bad occasions, he’s had to get Bruce to do it himself under his instructions.

That had been a sight.

He’d made Bruce get up on the bed and kneel astride him. And he’d watched while Bruce pushed the syringes in turn through his nipples and into his budding bitch-tits, and then into his swelling, tender balls.

These days, there’s nothing budding about the udders and testes that sway with the weight of gravity, little flicks of cramp clenching and rippling across Bruce’s abs.

He makes sure to rub Bruce’s belly. Never hard, but always for a few good, long seconds to get those muscles really jumping. To really work the water up.

Then he injects.

The fact that Bruce’s balls are already huge, always working overtime, doesn’t mean that they can’t accomplish just a little more.

Ideally he’d like them huge enough to need constant support. But that would sideline the Batman permanently and he can’t afford that. Bruce already has enough trouble moving as it is, even with the easy-peasy lemon-sized gonads Tim’s worked so hard to gift him.

The udders, now, they’re different.

Tim has to keep injecting them because Damian is already eight, and while he currently feeds before patrol every evening, he isn’t really interested in much more. Bruce does have a milking machine but he has to ask to use it and Bruce never asks for anything in his life.

They all take a few sips every now and again, sure, more to humiliate Bruce with how he has to stand there while his own sons expose these sagging, fleshy appendages, how they suck a few times on his sensitive nipples.

He knows Jason loves to tease Bruce’s left nipple with nothing more than his gloved forefinger and thumb, kneading and rolling, squeezing just enough to get a slow, decadent trickle of milk before abandoning him with a laugh and a sneer.

So in short, Bruce’s nipples see a lot of action but no regular milking bar one session every evening.

So Tim has to keep injecting him to keep his production up.

“We could let him dry up,” Dick suggests once.

Tim considers it.

But Cassie has also shown a marked preference for his milk when she’s in Gotham and though she’s not there as often as they would like, he has a strong suspicion that she will soon be a far more regular visitor to the mansion. And perhaps a more frequent assistant with the treatment.

When they’re done with the injections, Bruce is allowed to return to his room.

Still on hands and knees, he proceeds to the bathroom.

He is allowed his privacy here because Alfred has other matters to attend to.

Emptied of his first load, he administers his second himself, standing at the sink while he brushes his teeth and shaves.

Emptied of his second, he showers.

Then he oils himself.

He’s never as careful with himself as he should be. His sons have observed this.

He never takes his time jamming four fingers into his own ass, pulling them out only to pour fresh oil over them. Perhaps because this is when he is allowed to find his own relief. He is allowed to jack himself off, grunting and moaning and biting down on his lips as he fingers his ruined anus and his jacked-up dick before spurting into the toilet bowl.

He likes to keep needling at his prostate but he eventually calms down enough to take his fingers out of his greedy bitch-cunt. Then he uses unscented cream on the rest of his body, the lanolin ointment on his sow teats. Making sure to spend a lot of time twirling the nipples like Dick tells him he should.

Not because Dick tells him, they suspect, but because he likes the edge of flirting between compliance and dominance – of showing himself how to take charge before rejecting it in favour of battles he actually wants to win.

This battle?

This battle was over the minute Dick told him he’d seen how Bruce was looking at him, drooling like a bitch in heat. How greedy little bitch-cunts needed to be stuffed until they were full to bursting. How he was such a pretty bitch and such a good boy, and if he could only see himself on his knees with his mouth open, he’d know that he was always meant to be there.

Dick still has a collar from the first few sessions they had.

He likes to remind himself sometimes of how much more secret they had to be.

But the secrecy is gone.

Truthfully, they’ve never really needed it.

Alfred’s relationship with Master Wayne has always been… odd. A butler, rather than a parent, but a guardian nevertheless, and while he’d always supported Bruce in every eccentricity in public, he’d also made his position very clear with a spanking. Delivered on the Friday evening in the library, with Bruce bent over the back of a chair.

They still witness the spankings.

They all add to the running tally, in fact, and enjoy taking over if Alfred decides his hand isn’t up to the full count.

As for the rest of the household, no servants disturb the sanctity of Wayne Manor until at least noon, and if they do, the upstairs floor of the master’s wing is so sacrosanct that Tim sometimes believes there would have been bodies buried in the Batcave if Bruce had been a different person.

So they’re free to enact their desecration of their adopted father with full impunity.

Of course, the best part of the morning ritual is when Bruce is finally done in the shower and emerges in a cloud of steam and cologne and the slight musk of his cock still dribbling slightly in the after-shocks.

Alfred and Dick work on him together at this point.

Bruce Wayne’s stylist has always preferred blues and silvers and strong reds on his client – a classic and conservative approach to offset the occasional flashy two tone evening suits and much-too-young casual attire.

Often enough, Alfred coordinates his dark suits with ties in blue tones and silver tones. An easy pairing.

But Bruce’s ties have developed to include matching ball ties and ass ties. And recently Dick’s been bringing in thinner strips of matching ribbon for his nipples for special occasions. They don’t usually use them in the mornings though.

He spreads his legs wide apart while Dick kneels in front of him, Alfred sitting behind, and then he’s asked to open himself up.

“Come on,” Dick grins, “Let Alfred see that greedy little bitch-hole of yourself. And hold still unless you want to me to tie this too tight.”

They work independently, and yet in sync, and he gets to stand there while Dick uses a long length of material carefully matched to his tie to plait his sac.

Dick lays the middle of the length of cloth high up on his perineum, and then using Bruce’s drooping, sagging, stretched out ballsac as a third length, he plaits the two ends down like a little girl’s pigtail.

Then he ties it off in a bow and makes sure to spend a few good seconds ‘adjusting’ it.

In the meantime, Alfred uses his length of material to run through the grommets set into Bruce’s cuntlips, and he pulls it tight enough to pucker, but not enough to cut off blood flow. That too is tied into a bow.

And Bruce holds an asscheek in each hand, bent over with his ass stuck out and up, as if begging for the tie to be pulled a little tighter, or for Alfred to play with his hole a little more.

Alfred never does.

With the exception of dressing his former ward, Alfred is scrupulous about observing but never participating in the sexual escapades that the boys enact.

The corset goes on next, once again colour coordinated.

The corset is something Oracle asks for. Not because Bruce really needs it, but because she likes to know that Bruce’s uber-masculinity is forced to bear the indignity of something so soft and feminine. And that something so reputably ‘soft’ and ‘feminine’ can actually be more of an endurance test than any man can really know unless he wears it for a whole morning and feels how restrictive it is. How limiting.

A fitting lesson for the Batman to learn, she says caustically, and always gives Bruce a new one every birthday and Christmas.

The corset does nothing for his sow teats, however, which are left to hang unimpeded down his torso.

From here on out, he can dress himself.

He’s allowed to let go of his asscheeks and straighten up. Allowed to pull on his shirt – ordered with neatly cut holes to allow for his bitch-tits to sag freely beneath his jacket.

His pants and belt go on next.

He always sits down carefully to put on his socks and shoes.

And when he’s ready, he slides on his jacket and adjusts the fall so that the thick material obscures the swell of his udders, and, more importantly, the sewn-in absorbent pads sit nicely over his drippy nipples.

Then he goes down to breakfast with his tied up anus and his tied up balls, and he knows that when he gets there, one of his sons is liable to unbutton his jacket for no good reason but that he wants a sip of daddy’s tit milk before school.

And Bruce will sit there, drinking coffee and reading the paper, listening with half an ear to the sounds of his boys around him, letting the rough scrape of cloth against his sore nipples echo wetly through his body until it thumps into his squeezed up anal ring and he almost can’t stand the itch.

Almost stands up and drops his pants, leans across the table and unties his own bitch cunt and begs his sons to put something thick and long in his greedy little bitch-hole. Anything at all – anything and everything. As filthy as they like. Just so long as he gets something in there.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t need to.

They’ll do it anyway.

Sooner or later.


End file.
